


Function

by BlueWingedAngel



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3249497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueWingedAngel/pseuds/BlueWingedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is sick. </p><p>(Written for prompt #17. Function from my 100 prompts table for the 100.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Function

Clarke groaned in pain and distress. Two days ago she’d felt a little unwell. Yesterday she’d been coughing. Today... today she felt like she’d died and hell had spat her out. 

Unfortunately, for the sake of the group, she needed to be a functioning human being, so she hefted herself out of bed, she cleaned off, she pulled clothes on, she stepped outside and _oh god why was the sun so bright?_  

“Are you feeling all right?” Bellamy’s gruff voice demanded. “You seem worse today.” 

She wavered a little, swaying on her feet. “I...” 

He put a hand on her forehead, other arm sweeping around her waist to lift her slightly off her feet. “Yep, you’re going back to bed, your fever must be three hundred degrees.” 

She whimpered in protest as he guided her back into her tent. “Nuh, that’s...” She shook her head. “‘d be dead...” 

He huffed at her. “I was exaggerating, princess,” he said and pushed her onto her bed. 

If she was honest, this wasn’t how she’d imagined being pushed onto her bed by Bellamy Blake. 

“I could b’ ‘fectious,” she said. 

“I don’t care,” he said, pulling the covers over her. 

“‘m gross,” she tried. 

“I’m looking after you not making out with you?” he grunted. 

She whined adorably, rolling onto her face, mumbling, “‘ver ‘kin’ nuh’ meh.” 

He eyed her. “I’m not even going to bother trying to translate _that_ nonsense,” he said. “When was the last time you had something to drink?” 

She flapped a hand. She hoped it translated as _some time yesterday between the hours of eleven and three_.

It appeared to because he huffed, “Fuck’s sake, Clarke,” and moved away, finding a water skin and stepping back. The bed moved under his weight and she peeked out. “Roll onto your back.” 

Her fever was high enough that she took that in the dirtiest way imaginable, so when she rolled over her face was bright red and she was giggling. 

“It’s like you’re high,” he accused and put an arm around her, lifting her up until she was sitting and pressing the water skin to her lips. 

“‘m sick,” she mumbled. “S’a...” She flapped a hand and nearly hit him in the face, so he caught her wrist, holding it tight. 

“Drink the goddamn water, Clarke,” he said and she complied, sipping and whimpering against the nozzle. “Honestly.” 

“Mwuh?” she mewled through her nose in question. 

“You look after the health of everyone in the entire camp except yourself,” he said in despair. “Drives me mad.” 

She wrinkled her face up, eyeing him sideways as she drank, unable to reply. 

“If I have to tie you down and make you look after yourself, I will,” he threatened. Her eyebrows shot up and he eyed her. “Someone’s dirty sick.” 

She whined and shut her eyes, focussing on not gagging on the water. Once it was all gone she shifted her head away from the skin and coughed a couple of times. 

“All right?” he checked, laying her back down. 

She nodded, yawning. “Feel like hell,” she said quietly. 

“I know,” he said. “You’ll feel better though, the rest of the camp did, only takes a few days of TLC.” 

She blinked slowly. “TLC?” she murmured. 

“Tender, loving care,” he translated and brushed a hand over her hair. 

She smiled sleepily. “Mmm... s’nice,” she said and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep with him to look after her.


End file.
